I’m tired and hungry, they’ve slept and they’re fed.
They love that they’re living, I wish I was dead.
They’re healthy and carefree. I’m plagued by my fears.
Smiles on their faces – on mine only tears.

They don’t think of dying (it’s all I can think)
No worries or stressing. (I’m too scared to blink).
They have all they might need. I’ve nothing but pain.
They’ve nothing to lose and I’ve nothing to gain.

Please tell me, dear Father, how you could expect
me to be happy when their lives are perfect.
I’m sick of just… being. I struggle to breathe.
Soon I’ll be dead and they won’t even grieve.